


well acquainted with the villains that live in my head

by atlantisairlock



Series: quiet nights poured over ice & tanqueray: shoot x halsey [5]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Choking, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, POV Second Person, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 05:40:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4992433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atlantisairlock/pseuds/atlantisairlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>objective: get her back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	well acquainted with the villains that live in my head

After Shaw kisses you and then proceeds to spectacularly ruin the moment by running into a hail of gunfire, the world turns black and white. There is only one objective -  _get her back._ Every single course of action you plot on a day-to-day basis, you evaluate in respect to it. If it gets you one step closer to finding her again, you do it. If it doesn't, it's irrelevant. This is the one thing that keeps you eating, sleeping and brushing your teeth in the morning. You watch the world go by sometimes, and you know without a doubt you would let everyone in it burn if it meant you saw her face again. 

You need to get her back.

 

 

And you do. A year or so after she's captured, Team Machine goes in guns blazing and you take her home. When you find her, she is unconscious, bruised and bleeding, and it chills you to the bone. You have never seen her so broken. She does not seem delicate or fragile, even in the med bay covered with bandages and scars, but you are scared to touch her. She seems like a soap bubble, as if the moment you laid your hands on her she would disappear again. When you finally do, it's only because she's whimpering in her sleep and fidgeting; if she gets any more violent, she might rip her stitches. You take a gamble and tangle your fingers in hers, brushing a kiss against her forehead. She sighs quietly, muscles visibly relaxing, and returns to her dreams. 

You stay by her side. You don't leave; you _can't_. 

The first thing she sees when she wakes up is you. 

 

 

For a period of time, she's disoriented. They keep her in for observation. They tell you that she keeps drifting in and out of reality, forgets that she's safe and far away from Samaritan sometimes. The only reason why they let you in every time you ask is because her eyes are brighter when you're there. She's more focused, calmer, alert. 

You're the one who picks her up when they finally release her from med care. She slides hesitantly into the passenger seat of your car and looks at you with a curious, wary glance in her eyes. "Where are we going?" 

"Home," you reply, and it's not lost on you how relief floods her expression. 

 

 

Shaw takes some time to get used to her surroundings again. It's not like she's suffering from amnesia or anything, but the PTSD isn't doing her any favours. You wake up one night to the sound of Shaw breathing too fast, too laboured, she's  _crying_ and that's when you know something is terribly wrong. You flick on the lights and in that moment you can tell she's having a panic attack. It takes her half an hour to calm down, and after that she clings to you for the rest of the night. 

You are scared.

But you know she is too, and more than you are, and she's never known what _that_ feels like - so you try to be strong.

You have to be strong, for her. 

 

 

You set out a dinner of red wine and steak for both of you on a slow night. Her eyes light up when she sees it, and you release a breath you hadn't realised you'd been holding - this, at least, has not changed. She tucks in like she's ravenous, and you're rewarded with one of her first real smiles in a very long time. She is so beautiful when she does that, and you can't help but hold her gaze when she takes a sip of her wine. It feels like you have Shaw back, for real. You can't help but lean over to kiss her, and it's exhilarating when she kisses you back, a proper kiss, not like the hurried one both of you shared in the stock exchange. 

Dinner is forgotten when you get her clothes off. Both of you fall into the bed you've been sharing the past few months and she brackets your thighs with hers, opens her mouth against yours. She slides her hands up your shirt, you've got yours cupping her hips - it's a slow burn, and it's  _wonderful,_ it's everything you've ever wanted. She's soaking wet between her legs, you're pressing two fingers inside her, and when she puts one palm against your throat, you gasp. Her grip tightens, you're turning giddy, and it feels so good, until it doesn't.

"Shaw," you whisper, groaning. "Shaw, stop, you're hurting me."

She doesn't, and you  _know_ something is wrong. You try again, with a generic safe word. "Shaw,  _red."_

Your eyes fly open when you realise she's pressing far, _far_  too hard for it to be merely sexual. Her left hand joins her right around your neck, squeezing against your windpipe, and even in the darkness you can see her eyes are glassy and her teeth are bared. You struggle, trying to push her off you, but Shaw can bench-press her weight and she's incredibly strong and no matter how hard you flail she's just tightening her grip. You can't breathe. You're close to panicking - you can't die here, in your bed, suffocating with Shaw's fingers around your throat - you  _can't._ With a sinking devastation you realise that, for all the recovery Shaw's been going through, for all the progress she seems to have made, Samaritan got her deeper than you thought.

 _They hurt you,_ you think, but it's getting too fuzzy to focus. You're desperate. _"Sameen!"_  You just manage to choke out, grasping at Shaw's forearms and trying to push her away. "Sam, please - "

She stops. Something flickers in her eyes, and you can tell when she's fought past the intense brainwashing that must have left her half-dead, because her eyes turn warm again. Her grip on your throat instantly loosens, and she practically leaps out of bed, her face a mask of horror. You reach out one hand in an effort to reassure her, while the other flies to your neck, coughing as you massage your bruised throat. 

"Root," she gasps. "Oh god - oh fuck _,_ oh - "

You drag yourself off the bed, tugging at her wrist. Your voice is hoarse when you speak. "Shh. Shh, Shaw, come here, come here, it's okay."

She's staring at her hands, trembling. "I could have killed you."

You feel yourself drowning when you hear how broken she sounds. "Sameen, no. It wasn't you. It's not your fault."

Shaw's gaze is fixed upon your fingers wrapped around her arm. "You were my objective, Root. They tried to make me kill you, and I tried to fight it, for as long as I could, but - "

You silence her by kissing her. You slip one hand against her hips and pull her on top of you, onto the bed. You cup her face and lean your forehead against hers, feeling too hot and too cold all at once. "Don't. Not now, not like this. We can talk about it tomorrow, if you want." You stare into her eyes. "For now, just... stay here. Stay with me. Let me hold you." 

She acquiesces, shakily getting under the covers with you. You fold her into an embrace and her breathing evens out a little, but you can tell she's still scared. 

"Are you sure you want me here?" Shaw asks, a little gruffly. "I don't want to hurt you," she says, so atypically gentle when she traces one finger against your collarbone, the unspoken _again_ ringing in the silence. You shake your head. "Just sleep, Shaw. Just sleep."

She sleeps. You lie there for a while, just watching her, making sure she's comfortable, that she's not in any pain. It looks like the brainwashing went deeper than all of them thought. You have no idea what triggered it, triggered her to try and complete her objective again, but you'll deal with all of it when both of you wake up tomorrow. You know her, you think. You know her, you trust her, you love her. You know there will be finger-shaped bruises on your skin the next morning, and they will only serve to remind you of your new objective -

-  _payback._


End file.
